You said, you will remember, that you did not mind such unconventional things as penciled letters—­so here goes, Mrs. Radium.

This is to be a conventional letter, too, one of the bread and butter variety, the quail and dove, pigeon pie, creamed macaroni variety, for all of which much thanks, likewise for much stimulating talk, your help in planting my garden, many motor flights through brown woods, and some most charming company, including a man named Ellis and his celebrated son, the pigeon shooter.

We left you in the best possible hands, a lion and lioness [Footnote:  Mr. and Mrs. John Galsworthy.] who through long years of civilized captivity came tamely to your bars to be tickled and patted, and, no doubt, when properly fed, purred back.  If I were you, I would loot their typewriter.  Therein are the secrets of the British government, copies of all unknown treaties, plans for the extermination of Bolsheviki generally and the female kind in particular; likewise, therein you will find, narrated with particularity, the details of all loose conversations had with hotel clerks, commercial travelers, teachers, chauffeurs, and others of the illuminati, in which “impressions” are given to foreign authors hunting for “copy.”  Mr. George Creel has these aforesaid gents of the illuminati staked out, so to speak, for this very purpose.  Your dear friend Vera, the political Vamp, is no doubt conducting these sweet Innocents abroad, tho’ not in person of course, being much too crafty and cunning for that.  She has directed them by the wireless magic of her mind to Horsebranch on the Hill, there to discover a radiating and luminous Lady, hidden in the pine woods, who will reveal among other things the following:  (1) The nature of Woodrow Wilson’s personal character; (2) The full reasons for his conduct; (3) His occult international designs; (4) How he purposes to free Ireland; (5) The value of being House-broken; (6) The real name of the Man in the Iron Mask.

And much, much more—­for she is a well, a fountain, a geyser, a Niagara, reversed, of information, misinformation, knowledge, ignorance, modesty, audacity, in captivating breeches or in modest demure caps or in flowing evening robe.  Wise Vera, wise Creel—­ they know their business!  The English snooper, with typewriter in hand, will have a generous swig of the Scotch whiskey of the vintage of ’56, and his tied tongue will loosen, a confiding and tender and sympathetic hand will softly clasp his, and the Dark Flower will open to the world—­rather mixed that figure! eh, what?

Now, of course, this is not what I took my pen in hand to write, not at all.  I had intended after the formalities had been duly observed to tell you a few words about my wife.  Excellent woman, that!  But very jealous! very!  No sense of her own place!  Unwilling to subordinate herself.  Since she “came into my life” she has walked around in it and otherwise behaved familiarly and at home.  Never,